Just a drop of empty songs,
Sinking through skin, to the bone,
Crystalyzing to a thorn,
Tearing all the skin worn.
Now, half empty, half exposed.
Like a statue, made of stone.
Tell the skies your secret deeds,
Tell the people, what it means,
Tell the birds and tell the flowers,
How you, God, were stripped of power.
This might be our darkest hour,
Spoke the statue with regret,
Because now I have no power,
Nor faith in the humans left.
You still dare, statue, puppet,
Mock us in our time of need,
Have you already forgotten,
Who made the first sinful deed?
I have not forgotten you,
Even since I made the first.
Yet you let your children, mine!
Die because of cold and thirst!
Have you made all love this cursed?
I have tried to make you see,
Climb into the tallest tree,
By the power of your will,
Grow and take your seat by me.
But your seat is here with me,
And the seat from up above, now lies empty...
Did it work, allpowerful?!
I said in a mocking tone,
To the statue that was growing
Crystals, coming straight from bone.
All your trees, and all your saints,
Fallen, just as you fell too,
All the people, even Satan, dying.
It's just me and you.
And we sat, both, by each other,
Silent, too much to be said.
One more minute, just one minute,
Until all creation's dead.
YOU ARE READING
Through the veil ( Poetry )
PoetryA volume of poems under work, a story told chaotic and backwards about the birth, death, life and intrigues of "a" or "the" God, and one small mortal who takes the trip to discover all in-between them.
